


No Good Deed

by Selkit



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An act of bravery allows Nathaniel to restore a measure of honor to the tarnished Howe name, but the consequences may be more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of two. Hopefully I'll be able to get part two written before November 18. *fingers crossed*

Amaranthine never changed.

Nathaniel stood in the middle of the market, scowl set firmly in place, turning his shoulder against the noisy bustle and all the memories that came with it. If he let his mind wander too far, he could still hear Adria’s lilting voice telling him to stay close, or the jingle of his father’s coin purse distributing stray coppers into his and his siblings’ waiting hands. Now all of it, from the food carts’ thick aromas to the sharp glances from keen-eyed townsfolk, was just another unwanted reminder of things long since lost. 

Off to his side, Velanna and Sigrun were a study in opposites. Velanna looked just as uncomfortable as he felt—if for entirely different reasons—her face twisted in a deeper version of its usual grimace. Sigrun, by contrast, was almost bouncing in place with barely restrained enthusiasm. 

“Come _on_ ,” the dwarf said, grabbing Velanna’s arm and giving it an insistent pull. The sight reminded Nathaniel of a puppy trying to drag its owner after a fleeing squirrel. “There’s so much stuff to see! Don’t you want to explore?”

“Explore what?” Velanna’s tone reflected the pained annoyance of her expression. “A city stuffed to overflowing with humans? Can’t we just purchase the supplies and leave?”

“Oh, don’t be so cranky.” Sigrun rolled her eyes and tugged again, finally succeeding in jolting Velanna forward a few inches. “Nathaniel can take care of the supplies while you and I go have some girl time. Right, Nathaniel?” 

She didn’t bother waiting for a response before charging off like a war bronto, dragging the protesting elf behind her. Nathaniel watched them disappear into the marketplace crowd, smiling in spite of himself. He would get an earful from Velanna later, even as she buried herself to the nose in whatever sordid new book Sigrun would persuade her to buy. 

The Commander’s list of expedition supplies was mercifully short, and Nathaniel set to checking off each item with grim, dutiful precision. Despite the shadow cast on his once-fond childhood in Amaranthine, he remembered well his father’s lessons on how to haggle with merchants, leaving him with coin still in his pocket by the time the list was complete.

His gaze strayed toward the shops selling crisp vellum pages and fine quality inks. With her habit of feverishly writing in her journal each evening, Velanna was forever running out of ink, and she preferred dark forest green to the standard black inkwells stocked in the Keep’s supply closets. Nathaniel slipped the money from his pocket, weighing the coins in his hand. The specialty green ink was pricey, but the Commander wouldn’t begrudge the expense. He hoped. 

He made it halfway across the market toward the ink shop before shouts reached his ears, turning his head. He frowned in the direction of the commotion, foreboding prickling his mind at the thought of some unsuspecting human, out of his wits with terror, fleeing like a startled rabbit as Velanna chased him with fireballs. 

But her distinctive blond head—and the choice Elvhen insults he knew by heart—were absent. A small crowd had gathered around the yelling man, sending waves of uneasy curiosity rippling through the square in mutters and whispers. Nathaniel maneuvered his way around the gawkers politely but firmly, dodging the jostling elbows and darting children with the fluid ease born from years of combat training. 

“Calm down,” he heard himself saying, and reached out to grasp the heaving shoulder. The other man—more of a boy, in truth—stared up at him wild-eyed before doubling over, wheezing as he fought to catch his breath. He was dressed in the fine silken tunic of a noble squire, insignia embroidered across the front, and Nathaniel felt his frown deepening as he recognized the Cousland crest.

“Steady,” Nathaniel said, the word belying his thoughts. “What’s the trouble?”

“Are you—” the boy finally managed, squinting up at Nathaniel through an inconvenient shaft of afternoon sunlight. His face was still plump with youth and inexperience, mottled red with exertion. “Are you with the city guard? He—he told me to run and get the city guard for help, and I’ve been running up and down every street looking for them, fast as my legs can carry me, I swear I have, ser—”

“Slow down,” Nathaniel said. “Who told you to find the guard?”

“The Teyrn,” the boy blurted, desperation filling his voice. “It’s Teyrn Fergus Cousland, ser. He’s under attack by bandits, just outside the city. They came out of nowhere, like—like they were a bunch of spirits popping out of the Fade in some storybook. They’d already killed half the guards when the Teyrn told me to find help. Please, ser, we have to hurry. We—someone has to save him!”

At the edge of the crowd, someone gasped, then set up a hysterical wail. Nathaniel blocked out the noise without trying, gripping the boy’s shoulder and propelling him toward the city’s outskirts.

“Take me to them,” he said. “Can you retrace your steps?” 

“I—yes, ser,” the squire said, blinking. For the first time his gaze focused, a glimmer of uncertainty replacing the panic as he looked Nathaniel up and down. “So…you are with the guard, then? You don’t seem to be wearing one of their uniforms—”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Nathaniel interrupted, lengthening his steps until the boy broke into a trot to keep up. “We may not be guards in the traditional sense, but we’re no strangers to combat—or to bandits.”

“But—only one of you?” The boy panted, legs churning, and Nathaniel briefly wondered how fitness standards for squires had grown so lax since his own days squiring in the Free Marches. “Not that I mean any disrespect, but there were a lot of bandits, ser. Can you take them all on your own?”

“Two of my colleagues were with me, but they’re attending to other business,” Nathaniel said, ducking down an alley shortcut. “With all the commotion you were making, word is sure to spread through the city in short order. Once they hear of it, they’ll join me.”

The boy managed a nod and fell silent at last, concentrating on keeping up with Nathaniel’s long strides, but his face plainly spoke the same thoughts running through Nathaniel’s mind.

_We can only hope it isn’t too late for the Teyrn._

* * *

The city’s stifling clamor faded to the background as soon as they reached the outskirts, and the squire veered off to the left, waving his hand toward a thicket of trees rising on the horizon to the north. 

“We were on the road, passing through there,” he said, “when they jumped out of the woods and started attacking us without any warning. They didn’t make any demands or ask any questions, just caught us all by surprise. We all thought, this close to the city, no bandits would dare attack even a merchant caravan, let alone the Teyrn himself.” 

“Your guard was down,” Nathaniel said. “Overconfidence. They were probably expecting that.”

The squire flushed. “But—”

“Enough chatter.” Nathaniel cut him off with a gesture, his other hand drifting back toward his bow. “We need to be quick and quiet if we’re to get the drop on them. Stay behind me and try not to make any noise.”

For a moment he thought the boy would protest, but instead he swallowed his complaints and nodded, wiping his shining face on a velvet sleeve. They closed the distance to the thicket in a matter of seconds, and Nathaniel slowed his pace, slipping the bow from his back and drawing an arrow from the quiver.

The squire pointed up the path, and Nathaniel’s eyes followed, retracing the hoof prints and wheel tracks of the Teyrn’s caravan. Up ahead, he could just make out the cadence of hushed voices, but no yells, no pleas for mercy, no sounds of combat.

He swallowed, muscles tightening. _Not a good sign._

He slipped behind a thick tree trunk, breathing a silent curse at his decision to wear the royal blue and silver Warden uniform instead of more practical muted colors. Angling his shoulders to stay hidden behind the trunk, he eased his head around, peering through the red and gold foliage clinging to the low-hanging branches.

The outline of the Teyrn’s lavish wagon was barely visible through the leaves, sagging over its broken axel like a humpbacked old woman, an arrow shaft still protruding from one of its wheels. The horses were long gone, stolen or fleeing back to their stables. Several guards lay sprawled unmoving nearby, though whether dead or unconscious he couldn’t tell. An open chest perched off to one side, its contents spilling out in disarray. 

His eyes scanned from side to side, noting two bandits—both elves—standing a short distance to the left of the wagon, their body language suggesting a harried but quiet argument. A third elf stood just behind the wagon, head swiveling as he surveyed the forest, a rough-hewn but clearly serviceable bow clutched in both hands. 

_No sign of the Teyrn._ Nathaniel set his jaw, raising his bow until the arrow tip trained on the mop of hair spilling over the bandit guard’s forehead. He let out his breath, so slow the leaves inches from his mouth scarcely trembled, and eased the bowstring back. 

The movement was as silent as the weapon could manage, but not soundless enough. 

The elf’s head snapped around, wide eyes scouring Nathaniel’s hiding place, and his mouth was half open in alarm before the arrow shot clean through. His body clattered against the wagon as it dropped, and the two elves off to the side jolted into action, barking out commands as they pulled their weapons free. Two more bandits appeared from the front of the wagon and hurtled toward Nathaniel, the dappled sunlight glinting off the blades in their hands. 

_Five against one._ Nathaniel yanked another arrow from his quiver, the shot striking one bandit in the shoulder and drawing a pained grunt, slowing but not stopping the elf’s headlong rush. _I’ve had worse odds._

His second arrow found its mark, impacting the elf’s chest with a thud and sending him tumbling to the forest floor. The bandit running next to him spared a glance for his fallen comrade, realizing too late the folly of taking his eyes from his target as Nathaniel’s third arrow cleaved his side, sending him to his knees with an agonized howl. He threw his body to one side and attempted to roll, dagger thrusting upward as Nathaniel stepped out from behind the foliage’s cover. 

Nathaniel ducked toward his target and pulled his own knives free from their sheathes, keeping the remaining two standing elves— _both archers, of course_ —in the corner of his eye as he spun, narrowly avoiding the arrow whizzing past his ear. The bandit on the ground spat blood and rolled again, hissing in pain but keeping his dagger at the ready, hacking at the air whenever Nathaniel came too close.

“Where is the Teyrn?” Nathaniel demanded, advancing on the downed elf, putting the wagon between himself and the archers for a few precious seconds. “Were you trying to kill him, or simply rob him blind?”

The bandit bared his teeth, hissing out a guttural epithet, and for the first time Nathaniel caught sight of the intricate facial tattoos contorting with rage. “You’ll get nothing out of me, _shem_.”

_A Dalish? Are they all—?_

He had no time to finish the thought before the elf lunged up at him with a bellow that was part pain and all fury, dagger swinging in a wide but clumsy arc. Nathaniel side-stepped the blow and caught the elf’s shoulder, plunging his own blade into the bandit’s ribs. 

_Three down. Two left._

He pivoted, throwing down his blades and whipping his bow free just as the archers careened around the wagon’s corner. His arrow sailed low, catching one elf in the abdomen and knocking her backward, sending her own shot off to a harmless, clattering halt in the brush. Amidst the sounds of leaves rustling underfoot and muted groans from the downed bandit, he registered the familiar snap of a bowstring loosed, and he pitched his body forward on instinct, ducking his shoulder and letting momentum carry him into a roll. 

It wasn’t fast enough. The final archer’s arrow caught him square in the shoulder, turning his tight roll to a stumbled sprawl. His feet caught the ground and pushed off, hurling his body to the side to avoid a second projectile, and he ignored the jolt of agony from his wounded shoulder and the rattled protest of his bones colliding with the hard-packed soil. He was on his feet within seconds, hair pulled free from his braids and hanging in his face, his bow thrust forward with an arrow notched and ready even as his injured arm screamed for mercy. 

But the bandit wasn’t aiming at him. 

“Drop your weapon, _shem_.” The elf’s voice rang in the enclosed thicket, the trees seeming to close in from all sides. His bow was drawn and steady, pointing toward the front of the wagon, and Nathaniel’s eyes followed the arrow’s shaft to its target. 

Teyrn Cousland sat slumped over in the front seat, unconscious but stirring, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Blood spread from the crown of his skull to mat his hair and drip down his temples, a bright red stain on a pallid canvas. 

“You almost fight like a Dalish, whoever you are,” the elf continued, disgust lacing his tone. “Approaching from the woods, firing at us from the cover of leaves. I didn’t know a human could move so silently, instead of blundering through the brush like an overfed cow.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Nathaniel said, hiding his wince as another spasm of pain gripped his shoulder. 

“Don’t.” The elf’s lip curled in a sneer, marring the green tattoo stretched across the length of his cheekbone. “I’ll tell you once more, human. Drop your weapon, or I kill this _shem_ -lord. You may fight well for one of your kind, but you’re not quick enough to take me down before I release this shot. Especially with my arrow in your shoulder throwing off your aim.”

Nathaniel breathed in as deep as his wound would allow, easing his bowstring back. “You sound very certain of that.”

“And you’re stalling.” The elf’s face hardened. “Enough of this.”

His head whipped around to face the Teyrn, his fingers loosening on the bowstring. Nathaniel released his arrow, breath seizing in his chest as he watched it soar toward its target. In the back of his mind, he found himself sending up the fragments of a silent prayer to the Maker, for the first time in—months?—years? He supposed it mattered little—

The arrow hit its mark with a wet, ugly thud, skewering through the elf’s ribs and embedding itself deep in his chest. The bandit gave a single choked gasp, staggering several steps before his legs gave way beneath him, his bow and arrow dropping to the ground with a useless clatter. 

Silence descended over the forest, broken only by the labored wheezes from the elf with his arrow in her gut. Nathaniel let out his breath, lowering his bow with a wince and pushing hair back from his eyes, his palm coming away sticky with sweat and grime. 

“Nathaniel Howe? Nathaniel, is that…Maker’s breath, what…what happened here?”

The faint voice broke through the haze of pain and relief, and Nathaniel blinked, shaking off the cobwebs and stepping over to the wagon. Fergus Cousland looked up at him, squinting through blood and fog, his fingers plastered to the wound lancing across his head. 

“You have an arrow in your shoulder,” he said, voice thick. “Unless perhaps I’m seeing things that aren’t really here? The world does seem a bit…fuzzy…”

“Your eyesight hasn’t been affected, I’m afraid,” Nathaniel said. “Although it seems your memory is. You were attacked by bandits, and apparently all your guards were caught by surprise and overwhelmed. You sent your squire to the city for help.”

“And he brought…you, of all people?” Fergus struggled to sit up, casting a bewildered gaze around the path, eyes lingering on each fallen body. “You did all this?”

“He did, ser,” a small voice piped up, and Nathaniel took a step back as the squire appeared next to the wagon, his awe-filled eyes gone wide and round as his face. “He took them all down singlehanded, ser, every last one of the bandits. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t watched him do it.”

The Teyrn gazed up at Nathaniel again, his expression slowly shifting, as though seeing him for the first time.

“Andraste’s arse,” he finally muttered, cradling his injured head in both hands. “Who would have thought a Howe—Rendon Howe’s _son_ —would be the one to jump in and rescue me from a bandit attack?” 

The frantic rumble of approaching footsteps cut him off, and Nathaniel’s hand strayed back to his bow before a contingent of Amarantine guards burst into the thicket, Velanna and Sigrun hard on their heels. 

“Apologies, my lord Teyrn,” the head guard blurted, taking only a second to survey the carnage before dropping to one knee in front of Fergus. “We came as soon as we heard the news of the attack.”

“Apparently Nathaniel Howe is all the army one needs,” Fergus said, voice dry. “I was regrettably unconscious during most of the scuffle, but my squire tells me he dispatched all the bandits on his own. Nathaniel—were you able to determine who they were before you killed them? Disgruntled citizens, or gang members, perhaps? Or was it simply a random attack by particularly bold robbers?”

Nathaniel took a deep breath. 

“They didn’t disclose their motivations,” he said. “But they were all elves. Dalish elves.”

He didn’t have to turn and look to know the expression on Velanna’s face. 

“They—” he heard her spit. _“What?”_

As one, the guards swiveled toward her at the outburst, their posture stiffening, as though they had somehow failed to notice her tattoos and pointed ears during the run from the city to the forest. 

“Ser?” The lead guard tilted his head toward the Teyrn, but kept his eyes on Velanna, his fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. It slipped from its scabbard, first an inch, then two, the scrape of the metal grating in the silent wood.

Nathaniel tensed, his uninjured arm slipping up to his quiver, fingers brushing over a feathered arrow shaft. A chill prickled down his spine, matching the tone of his voice. “You should remove your hand from your weapon, guardsman.”

“With respect, ser, she’s one of—”

_“Fools.”_ Velanna’s snarl split the air, freezing everyone in place like a sudden, vicious clap of thunder. She pushed between the guard and Nathaniel, making her way across the clearing to where the last elf archer lay. The bandit’s breaths were shallow and rattling, her fingers wrapped in a loose hold around the arrow shaft still jutting from her abdomen like a flagpole staked on conquered ground. Her eyes glazed over, sunken in her gray-tinged face.

“Shhh.” Velanna took her free hand, wrapping the limp fingers in her own, and murmured something in the old Elvish tongue. “It’s over now.”

The bandit’s brows creased in a vague frown, confusion flickering in her eyes as she struggled to focus on Velanna’s face. 

“Sister?” she managed, eyes tracing Velanna’s tattoos with obvious effort. “What…who? You’re not from the clan…”

“No,” Velanna said. Nathaniel watched her fingers tighten on the other elf’s hand. “No, my own clan is far from here.”

“Then what…” The bandit tried to turn her head, but her strength failed her, her hair dragging in the dirt as her head lolled back. “Why are you with these humans?”

“That’s not important right now.” Velanna’s words were firm, yet as gentle as Nathaniel had ever heard her speak. “Tell me what happened here, lethallan.”

“Step back,” Nathaniel heard himself say, his voice a sudden, gruff sound. He gestured to the guards, jerking his head down the path. “Give them some space.”

The head guard looked as though he wanted to argue, but something in Nathaniel’s face gave him pause. He signaled to the rest of the guard contingent, following them as they withdrew. The squire trailed after, the hem of his silken trousers digging a groove in the dusty road. 

A subtle cough sounded from the direction of Nathaniel’s thigh, and he looked down to see Sigrun raising her eyebrows at him, her expression mingled concern and faint amusement.

“Hey, Grumpy,” she said, her voice low. “You aware that you’ve still got an arrow sticking out of your shoulder?”

“Thank you for the reminder.” He touched the slender shaft and grimaced, aftershocks of pain shooting through his shoulder and down his arm. 

“Well,” Sigrun said, “it does look very heroic and all that sort of thing, but it’s probably not the best trophy to take home with you. C’mon, kneel down and let me take it out. I have some bandages in my pack, should be enough to keep you together until you get it properly cleaned out back at the Keep.”

He obeyed, getting to his knees with a sigh, gritting his teeth against the pain as Sigrun pulled the arrow free. Her hands were quick and practiced, and he forced himself to relax as the pain slowly ebbed, his eyes drifting down the path. Velanna still knelt next to the dying elf, their conversation too silent for him to hear. 

_Won’t be long now._

“Normally I would congratulate you for taking out all those bandits by yourself,” Sigrun said, a measure of her usual cheer working its way back into her tone before it faded again. “But…well.”

“Indeed.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, not bothering to bar the resignation from his tone. 

“You didn’t know they were Dalish until you started filling them with arrows, though. Right?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I was only told bandits were attacking the Teyrn, nothing more. But I’m not sure if that will make a difference.”

Sigrun’s reply stalled, both of them watching as Velanna stirred, her hand darting out to brush the other elf’s eyes closed. She rose to her feet and grasped the arrow in the bandit’s abdomen, pulling it free with a single, sharp yank. Behind him, Nathaniel heard the guards murmur as she turned and stalked toward them, pausing only long enough to hurl the blood-streaked arrow at Nathaniel’s feet.

“I believe this is yours,” she said, her voice low and dark, simmering with fury.

She didn’t wait for a response before she continued down the path, her spine an iron rod, her fists battering rams. Despite themselves, the guards parted to let her pass, their eyes narrowed, hands hovering near their weapons. 

“Ser...” The lead guard’s voice piped up in protest when Velanna was barely out of earshot, his uneasy gaze darting to the Teyrn. “Shouldn’t we detain her? Won’t she go back to her people and organize some sort of retaliation?” 

Fergus stood bracing himself on the wagon’s side, his fingers still straying to his temple to prod gingerly at the wound’s edges, but at the guardsman’s words the pain faded from his eyes. 

“Howe?” he said. “I’ll defer to you on this one. She’s, ah, one of your people, isn’t she?”

Nathaniel pulled himself to his feet, steeling his jaw against the urge to turn his back on the entire scene and follow Velanna down the path, to close the distance between them. “Yes,” he said. “She’s a fellow Warden. Let her go; I’ll speak to her once we’re back at Vigil’s Keep.”

“But ser, the security of the city—” the guard protested again. “If one small group of Dalish bandits can wreak this much havoc, what kind of damage could an entire clan do, if united against us by an angry elf seeking vengeance?”

“Velanna is no longer in contact with her clan. They want nothing to do with her.” Nathaniel ground out the words more harshly than intended, ignoring the stab of pain arcing from his shoulder up to his clenched jaw. He drew a deep breath and steadied himself against a wave of dizziness, pretending not to notice Sigrun’s uneasy fidgeting beside him. “Trust me, you have no organized retaliation to fear from her. If she needs to take her anger out on anyone, she’ll take it out on me.”

“Well, I hope that doesn’t happen,” Fergus said with a dry chuckle. “She certainly appeared quite…forceful. But very well, I’ll trust your judgment on this, Howe. I wouldn’t even be alive to make this call if not for you.” He stepped forward, clapping Nathaniel on his uninjured shoulder. “Look at the two of us, walking wounded. It’s…well, it’s almost like the old days training together at your father’s castle or mine, isn’t it?” 

A shadow crossed his face for no more than an instant before he shook it off, putting on a well-practiced nobleman’s smile. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stop in at your Keep in a day or two when we’ve both had a bit of time to heal. Your heroics deserve official recognition. No, no,” he smiled, already waving off Nathaniel’s protests, “I insist. You saved my life, Howe. Don’t think I’ll dismiss that so easily.”

“He’d love to,” Sigrun spoke up, tilting her head at a jaunty angle and flashing her trademark cheeky grin. “In fact, all of us Wardens would love to. But I think for now, we’d best be getting back so a healer can see to this wound. I’d hate for my lovely bandaging job to get all ruined with blood seeping through.”

“Point taken,” Fergus said with a rueful smile, reaching up to prod at his own wound once again. “In a few days, then.”

“Very well.” Nathaniel managed a nod, dropping into a stiff bow before turning away, bracing himself on Sigrun’s proffered shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Grumpy,” he heard her whisper as they started down the path, Amaranthine looming in the distance. “Just give her a little time. She’ll come around.”

He looked away. “Thank you, Sigrun.”

“None of that, now.” She poked him in the side. “She will. Just you wait.”

But as she lapsed into silence, Nathaniel could see her expression turn distant, her eyes sliding southward toward Vigil’s Keep.


End file.
